by L. G. McCary
The ride feels like hours, but I know it can’t be more than a few minutes because the hospital isn’t far. The pain must be contractions, but they can’t be. It’s too soon. The pain comes fast and furious, crashing through me like tsunamis. I can’t stop crying. They wheel me down a hall where I watch the overhead lights flash past. It’s like every horrible television episode I’ve watched where a character is going to die.
A nurse grabs my hand and smiles at me. “I’m Jennifer. Who is your doctor?”
“Dr. Pressley,” David tells her.
“Well, he is on call tonight and on his way,” she says as they keep rolling me down the endless hall.
“Help my baby, please.”
“We’re going to get you hooked up to the monitors right now so we can see how she’s doing. It’s a girl, right?”
I’m in a room. When we toured the hospital a few weeks ago, it looked much homier. Right now, it is a cave. My breath hitches over and over until I worry I might hyperventilate. This is not how it is supposed to go. I’m not supposed to be here yet. This is all wrong.
“I’m not supposed to.”
“What, Charlotte?” the nurse asks.
“This isn’t the way. What did I do?”
Jennifer grabs my hand and looks into my eyes.
“Sometimes things just happen,” she says, her voice gentle and serious. “That’s why we have hospitals and doctors and people like me.”
“Is she okay?”
“We’re checking the monitor right now.” There are so many people in the room with me. It’s supposed to be me and David and my doctor. David is signing forms in a chair next to my head.
“Heart rate is one hundred. No accels,” another nurse says.
“Is that bad?”
Another contraction stabs me. This one spreads through to my back. Invisible crowbars are prying my spine apart. The scream that rips my throat in half sounds like it came from an animal. Jennifer grips my hand and puts a cold washcloth on my neck. David is holding my other hand and kissing it.
“Breathe, Charlotte,” the nurse says. “Have you picked a name for your daughter?”
“Rylie,” David says.
“Rylie needs that oxygen just like you do,” the nurse says. “You have to breathe.”
“Hurts.” This is wrong. I’ve been practicing my breathing and how to be calm, but I can’t.
“I know it hurts.”
David whispers in my ear a hundred sweet things to distract me from the pain.
“When did the contractions start, Dad?”
“About an hour ago?” David says. I shake my head that it can’t be that long, but it also feels like I’ve been in this hell for days. Jennifer talks me through another contraction. They’re all running together now. Another nurse asks David something about the placenta. I don’t know what she’s talking about, but she looks concerned.
“Am I bleeding?” I say.
“We’re taking care of you, Charlotte. I need to do an exam.”
I don’t want to think about it. I shut my eyes and bury my head in the sickly-sweet smelling hospital pillow. I want my own pillow. It smells like lavender.
“Where is my doctor?” I’m soaking the pillow with tears.
“He’s on his way. And Dr. Casey will come as soon as he is out of surgery.”
“Nurse, what can I do?” I hear David say from my hiding place in the pillow.
“You are doing great, Dad. Stay right there next to mom. Here, let’s change out that washcloth.” The cold, moist washcloth is more clammy than comforting on my neck.
“I’m going to throw up,” I say. Another nurse shoves a blue bag underneath my chin, and I taste bile. There’s little in my stomach. I heave with the contraction, my whole body almost seizing with the effort. It makes me see stars.
I know David is trying to help me, but all I can think about is the pain. My ears are hot, but the rest of my body is cold. The room is spinning like a merry-go-round. My guts twist, and something changes. I can’t stop it. I can’t think of anything else. I grunt through the haze around me as my body forces me to hunch over, and my muscles scream.
“Charlotte?” When I open my eyes, the look on the nurse’s face scares me. Another contraction hits me, and again I’m carried along with a wave of pain. My body is pushing whether I want it to or not. The nurses are suddenly a flurry of motion, and someone says something about alerting the NICU.
“Where is my doctor?”
“Is she pushing?” David asks. “Honey, wait, the doctor is coming!”
“I’ve got you, girl,” Jennifer says, squeezing my hand. “If you need to push, push. I have delivered lots of babies, and Dr. Pressley will be here any minute. You do what you need to do.”
There are lots of other faces in the room, every one a stranger. Pain rushes through me, sending fire through my legs. I think I might tear apart. The faces swim in front of me.
“What happened?” David says, his voice tight. He rubs my hand. “That’s a lot of...” his voice trails off. He is white as a sheet.
“Look at Mom, Dad,” another nurse orders, moving David away from the foot of the bed. “Talk to her. We’re taking care of her.”
“I’m here, honey.” David turns toward me and bites his lip. “I’m right here. Breathe.” The nurses are talking to each other, but I can’t understand the medical terms. Someone mentions calling a cart. That sounds bad. Jennifer leans up to me, her eyes focused and serious.
“Charlotte, I need you to listen to me,” the nurse says. Her voice forms a knot of dread deep in my heart.
“I’m so tired.” I have to close my eyes.
“We need to get that sweet baby out. Next push, I want you to push as hard as you can.”
“What about the doctor?”
“Kelly and I will take good care of both of you until he gets here.”
“I’m scared,” I say to David. “Is the baby okay?”
“Baby is fine right now,” the other nurse says, “but we need to get her out as soon as we can.”
The pain rises, slow but sharp like the thrust of a knife through my back.
“Get ready, Charlotte. Push hard! Deep breath!”
“I’m here, Charlie. I’m right here,” David breathes in my ear. The room is sharp and clear all of a sudden, and time stops. There is nothing but the pain and knowing that Rylie needs me. Rylie.
“Rylie!” I yell it at the top of my lungs. I cannot lose my girl. I can’t. “Rylie!”
“That’s it, Charlotte! Keep going!” the nurse yells. I’m screaming, and for a millisecond, all I can think about is how the sound echoes off the ceiling.
I am breaking into pieces. I gulp air and scream again. I know the nurse is trying to help me, but I can’t hear anything but the rush of blood in my ears and my own screams of pain.
And then she’s out. I look down to see her, but the nurse is cutting the cord and carrying her away. I’m supposed to hold her. I’m supposed to be the first person to touch her.
My arms are empty but somehow still heavy. My head dips forward. My whole body shakes until I wonder if there’s an earthquake.
“Is she okay? Rylie!” I beg the nurses. “David, is she okay?”
I can’t see her over the mess of bodies. I can’t hear anything. David is pale next to me
The room fills with a silence that feels like death. Jennifer is busy at my feet. She’s holding her breath. David bows his head on my shoulder and whispers a prayer. I don’t hear the words. I’m straining to hear Rylie.
A cry. It’s a tiny noise like a kitten. The nurses laugh.
“Good girl,” I whisper. David squeezes my hand and says something to the nurses. My head grows heavy. I look down and realize that Jennifer looks worried. Another nurse is offering suggestions and saying she can put something in my IV. Someone else calls out numbers. Everyone is looking more worried. But I still can’t see Rylie.
“I’m dizzy,” I say to the nurse. I can’t focus.
It’s so cold in the room. I can’t think. “I’m really dizzy.”
“I’ve got you, girl,” Jennifer says. “Kelly, get the bed down now.”
“I don’t want the lights off,” I say. I want to see my baby, and I can’t if they turn the lights off.
“Charlotte, we’re going to lay you down.”
I’m colder than ever. I can’t see David. Where is David? And why is it dark?
I don’t have any strength to argue. The bed drops behind me.
“Please let me see her,” I whisper. One of the nurses grabs my hand and squeezes it tight.
“She’s getting some oxygen right now, honey. She’s doing great.” My baby cries again from the corner, and the nurse grins. “Hear that? Can you squeeze my hand, please?”
“See her, please.” The words slur into a mess.
I’m dying. I see it in the nurses’ panicked movements. I hear it in David’s voice as he talks to Jennifer.
I’m going to die and never see my daughter. I’m going to leave her alone without a mother. I’ll never even get to hold her.
The earthquake in my chest begins again, sobs shaking me from head to toe. David is talking to me, but there’s someone in his way. I don’t understand what he is saying. There are so many people in the room, and half of them are around my bed, talking to each other about me.
Rylie. The nurse holds her against my face, but she is miles away. She is pink and bald and crying. The nurse has lifted Rylie’s oxygen mask a few inches so I can see her face. She is transcendently beautiful. Her eyes are scrunched closed. What color are they?
“Can you give her a kiss, Mom?” the nurse says.
I try, but my lips are not working. Then my baby disappears into a plastic box, and the box vanishes. They’ve taken her away. The room fades into black and white, and swirls of shadows fill my vision.
The darkness drags me with icy fingers down a tunnel. I can’t see the end, but I know when I reach it, I will never come back. One kiss is all my daughter will ever know of me. David’s voice is fading. The nurses are calling my name. They sound far away. Another voice I should know says my name. It isn’t David. Who is it?
“I can’t see,” I say. I am trapped in the tunnel. My stomach pitches and my head spins like I’m on a rollercoaster in the dark.
The rollercoaster is going to crash. I can’t get off. I can’t move or scream or breathe. I’m paralyzed in this spinning chaos with fireworks exploding around me.
I thought I would be at peace when I died.
Four
I jerk my eyes open and see the fan above our bed spinning slowly in the glow of the nightlight on our wall. My heartbeat thunders in my ears, and I force my fists to unclench the sheets. I can’t take these nightmares much longer.
Rylie and I have been home one week now, and every time I fall asleep, I find myself back in the hospital. I dream of faceless nurses and doctors shouting medical terms that make no sense, and the pain making the room spin. It always ends with the darkness closing in as I scream for Rylie.
I turn to look at my baby in the bassinet next to me. I try to slow my breathing and gently touch Rylie’s downy head. She has worked her left hand out of the swaddle blanket and holds it to her face. I want to hold her, but that would wake her up.
The alarm clock reads 1:00 a.m. I doubt I’ll be able to fall asleep again, knowing Rylie will need to nurse soon. My stomach growls as I lie on the edge of the mattress. No one told me how my stomach would hurt so much waking up in the middle of the night. Maybe it’s the medicines I’m taking. Every morning I’ve swallowed a nasty pill to replenish the iron I lost delivering Rylie.
Placental abruption with postpartum hemorrhage. Such strange clinical words for almost dying of blood loss. My doctor got the bleeding under control soon after I passed out, but I needed a transfusion. I still feel nauseated when I remember waking up to a red IV bag above my head. At least Rylie didn’t need anything more than some extra oxygen for a few days. My girl is a tough cookie even though my body failed her.
Mom would be mad at me for thinking that. She demanded to stay with us a little longer so I can heal. She’s been feeding me iron-rich foods, refilling my water bottle, and watching me like a hawk for dizziness. David treats me like I’m made of glass, about to shatter if he says or does the wrong thing. There’s been a seemingly endless stream of messages on my phone of people offering food and other help. Renee told me the whole church has heard what happened and has been praying for me.
Part of me feels loved, but I’m mostly embarrassed. I hate that I need so much help. I just want to feel normal again, but I cannot shake this ugly feeling in my chest. There are so many things to remember, but I feel like I can’t keep track of it all. Is Rylie eating enough? Is her cry normal? The first few days, I was supposed to track her diapers and feedings with a paper. It got lost somewhere between the hospital and home, and I couldn’t stop crying. Mom finally printed me a new one she found online.
It seems so silly to cry over a diaper tracker, but how can I help it with all these nightmares waking me up?
“Don’t worry,” my mom told me this afternoon. “Everyone is nervous the first few weeks. And you’re naturally a little nervous anyway.” I keep telling myself she’s right.
Then there was the ballerina lamp. David’s mom was so proud of it when she brought it over this morning, but it doesn’t match the nursery at all. I don’t even like ballet. But it was a vintage find at an estate sale, and she couldn’t wait to give it to us.
“It’s my first ‘Nana’ gift,” she told me. I don’t know why I cried about it. I felt like an idiot. David looked at me like I lost my mind, and my mother-in-law said she could keep it at her house instead. David shooed her out of the room until I calmed down. I finally apologized for acting nuts. It was just an old pink ballerina lamp. Try as I might, I can’t come up with any sane reason for crying about it. I can still see her smiling next to my mom on the couch.
“Don't worry, honey," my mother-in-law said, perched on the couch next to my mom. "When I had David, I cried when my mother baked me brownies. And then I cried when I ate the last one the next day. It's all hormones. I'm convinced they're of the devil!”
When I looked at it again this evening, I decided it wasn’t that bad. It’s actually a pretty lamp. And it’s pink. If I change the shade, it will match the room. I hope David’s mom truly isn’t offended. It kills me to think I may have hurt her feelings.
I want a drink of water, but the bottle on my nightstand is empty. I slowly sit up and slide along the bed with the bottle, trying not to disturb Rylie.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a dark shape standing in the doorway.
“David?”
David starts next to me in bed.
I stifle a scream as the shape vanishes like smoke.
“What?” David says, jumping out of bed, half awake. I can only point at the door.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” He stands up and looks around.
“I saw someone,” I say. “Mom? Mom, are you there?”
The doorway is a black void. Did I see someone?
“Hold on,” he whispers. He grabs his softball bat from next to the bed and pads out of the room into the hallway. I try to follow his footsteps with my ears, but my heart is pounding so hard that I can’t hear anything else. I glance back at Rylie and put a hand on her chest as it rises and falls. Then David is back in the room.
“There’s no one there. It’s fine.”
“Was it Mom?”
“Your mom is asleep, Charlie. You must have been dreaming.”
“But I wasn’t!” I say over the blood pumping in my ears.
“It’s okay, Charlie. I checked the whole house.” He leans the baseball bat next to the dresser and climbs back into bed. I lay back against the pillows. David slips his arm around my waist and pulls me close.
“Are you okay?” he whispers. I make an affirmative sound, and he sighs. “It was just a scary drea
m. Go back to sleep.”
“I thought I saw someone.”
He squeezes my shoulders and reaches over to pat Rylie. He is asleep again in moments.
I’m still thirsty, but I can’t move. If I move, David will roll over, and his arms are the only thing keeping me from falling apart.
Five
“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound...” I’m not much of a singer, but Rylie doesn’t seem to mind. She’s only been in the world four months, so she doesn’t know any better. She wiggles on my chest, rubbing her nose with her fist and sighing. She fights sleep as hard as she can, but she’s starting to give up. The rocking chair always works.
It’s working on me too. I’m exhausted, and the soft pink light from the ballerina lamp above her changing table is sending me into a trance. I should have had David rock her so I wouldn’t fall asleep holding her in the chair. But I love rocking her. I love holding my baby and feeling her squirm against my chin as she tries to keep herself awake. She is only still when she finally falls asleep.
“Noisiest, wiggliest four-month-old I ever saw,” my mother-in-law said last weekend. “Davy was busy, but this girl is biz-zy. No wonder you’re tired, honey.”
“You’d think she would have fallen asleep in the car since she wouldn’t sleep during church,” David said. He had stretched out on the floor next to Rylie, watching her kick and squirm. She flailed her arms at his face, smacking his nose. “Ouch. I guess the other babies in the nursery are too interesting.”
“At least you can go to Sunday school again,” Nana said.
“If only I could pay attention instead of falling asleep myself,” I muttered and put a toy near Rylie’s head. She cooed with delight and then grunted in frustration that I’d put it out of reach.
“You’re going to have a time when she starts crawling, Charlotte,” Nana said with a laugh.
I’m sure she was right. This girl is going to be a handful. Rylie wiggles again and sighs a huge sigh. I run my fingers up and down her spine, and her breathing slows. She’s ready for her nap. If only she could be convinced that naps are the best thing ever.